Chapter 1: Welcome to the Neighborhood

The first thing Patricia Sterling noticed about the new resident wasn't his three fancy cars or the moving trucks rumbling through Vellamar Estates since dawn. It was how he left his garbage bins out.

Thirty-seven minutes past pickup time.

Standing at her kitchen window, holding Richard's coffee mug, still warm from her habit of making two cups every morning, she watched the young Black man walk out of the Spanish house that sold for 2.8 million dollars. The mug felt heavy in her hands. Its warmth reminded her of her husband. Even from her second-floor window, she could see Rashad Jacobson's confident walk. She noticed the way he looked around his new property like he owned it.

Which, of course, he did.

Her fingers tightened around the mug. It was the same one her husband had used every morning for fifteen years before his heart suddenly stopped during a board meeting. A small crack ran down its chipped side, but she couldn't throw it away. Like everything else in this house, in this neighborhood, it was perfectly imperfect. It was kept to exact standards but showed signs of age, memories, and loss that pills couldn't fully numb.

She reached for her morning pills with practiced ease. She took two white Percocet to dull the sharp edges of grief that still hit her some mornings. The pain was as fresh as the day they'd called from the hospital. She followed with the Adderall that Richard always said made her thinking crystal clear. "Your brain is your best weapon," he'd told her many times. His voice still echoed in the empty rooms. Letting him down by being foggy when Vellamar needed protection wasn't an option. This was true even though he was gone.

These pills had become as important as breathing. Each one was a small shield against the mess threatening to take over her without Richard to steady her. Without them, she was just a broken widow clinging to rulers and rule-breaking notices. Her hands would shake too badly to enforce the rules Richard had worked himself to death creating. With them, she became the keeper of order. Her mind became sharp and focused. Her purpose became absolute.

The trash bins stood like guards of rule-breaking. Black plastic against clean concrete. A stain on the carefully perfect landscape that she and Richard had spent eight years perfecting through strict rules. The Homeowners Association Rulebook, all forty-seven pages, clearly stated: trash cans must be out of sight by 6 PM on collection day.

The clock read 6:37 PM.

"You see this, darling?" she whispered to Richard's photo on the counter. Her thumb rubbed the glass over his smile as the drugs began working. They steadied her hands and cleared her mind. Her fingerprints left marks on the glass that she would clean later with care. She would clean this new stain on their community too. "NFL money thinking it buys freedom from community rules."

His answer echoed in her mind. It was the voice that the drugs helped her remember perfectly: "Patricia, honey, neighborhood rules exist to protect everyone's investment. When one person gets special treatment, we're cheating everyone else who follows the rules and keeps property values high."

She grabbed her phone. She opened the camera app and zoomed in on the offending bins. The zoom brought the rule-breaking into clear focus. She was gathering proof that felt like sacred duty. Switching to voice recording, her speech steadied as the drugs took effect. Words flowed with fake precision that sounded like authority rather than showing drug effects.

"Day one, rule break number one. New resident at 1247 Sycamore Lane. Trash cans breaking Rule 12.3 of the neighborhood rulebook. Time: 6:37 PM, thirty-seven minutes past deadline."

She paused. She watched the athletic figure as he unloaded what looked like expensive music equipment from a white Lamborghini that shined in the evening sun. Everything about him screamed money and pride. He was the type who thought rules were just suggestions. He was the type who believed being rich meant not having to follow neighborhood standards.

The type who might destroy everything she and Richard had built.

"Subject appears to be..." She hesitated, then pushed forward. The drugs gave her courage that grief had stolen. "Subject appears to be ignoring neighborhood standards on purpose on his first day. This pattern will likely continue without quick action."

From where she stood, she could hear the man laugh at something a mover said. The sound jarred against the carefully kept quiet of Vellamar evenings. Rich, confident, careless. Her chest tightened with familiar worry mixed with something sharper: a protective anger that had grown stronger since her husband's funeral six months ago. The pills' warmth spread through her blood. It turned grief's frozen state into watchful purpose.

Several neighbors had already texted her about the new arrival. They mentioned the moving trucks, the fancy cars, the apparent disregard for neighborhood standards on day one. Her phone buzzed with another message: "New resident breaking rules. Trash problem noted. Suggest stepping in right away."

Keys already in hand, the drugs giving her courage that grief had stolen, allowing her to face this new threat to the order Richard had set up and she must now protect.

The walk to 1247 Sycamore Lane took three minutes at a steady pace. She timed it during evening rounds she'd started after Richard died. Each step felt both automatic and planned. Muscle memory guided her while drugs kept her focused. The neighborhood felt different now, less safe, more open to the mess that creeps in when standards slip.

Evening air smelled of jasmine mixed with freshly cut grass. It was a perfect suburban smell created through eight years of strict HOA leadership. Every lawn kept to exact measurements. Each mailbox the approved forest green color. All hedges trimmed to the right height. A perfect sight that Patricia had kept through careful rule keeping and constant watching.

Beautiful. Safe. Worth protecting.

The moving truck took over the circular driveway. Its huge size temporarily ruined the street's elegant lines. Neighbors peeked from windows. Mrs. Chen across the street. The Johnsons two houses down. Even old Mr. Petrov from the corner lot. All watching, waiting to see how this newcomer would fit into their carefully balanced community.

Or if he would fit at all.

"Excuse me," Patricia called out. Her tone carried the authority of eight years as HOA president. It was strengthened by the drugs keeping her working when grief might otherwise have collapsed her into a sobbing mess unable to protect Richard's legacy. "I'm Patricia Sterling, president of the Vellamar Estates Homeowners Association. Welcome to our neighborhood."

The man turned. His size surprised her, easily six-foot-three, with an athletic build that made her feel suddenly small despite her authority. His smile seemed automatic, polished, practiced for cameras and interviews. Yet his eyes showed careful thinking. It was the look of someone skilled at reading authority figures and figuring out the right responses.

"Rashad Jacobson," he responded. He extended a hand that dwarfed hers. The contact felt both unwanted and necessary. It was a polite act hiding immediate opposition. "Great to meet you. Hell of a neighborhood you've got here."

"Language," Patricia corrected automatically, then caught herself as his eyebrows rose slightly. "I mean, we maintain certain standards. Speaking of which..." She gestured toward the offending bins with the practiced motion of someone who had perfected polite confrontation through years of rule keeping.

Rashad followed her pointing. His expression shifted from confusion to understanding to something resembling amusement. The slight curl of his lip triggered Patricia's defensive instincts. It was the same response she'd seen in others who initially thought wealth freed them from community duties.

"The trash? Yeah, I planned to move those. Just focusing on important stuff before it gets dark." His tone suggested the rule-breaking was unimportant. It suggested community standards were small concerns beneath his notice.

"Our neighborhood rulebook requires trash containers removed by 6 PM on collection day," Patricia explained. She showed him the time on her phone. "It's now 6:42 PM. I understand you're new, but—"

"Lady," Rashad interrupted. His polished smile wavered as something harder flashed in his eyes. "I bought a three-million-dollar house. I think I can handle some garbage bins."

This dismissal hit Patricia like a physical blow. It was an attack on the order Richard had established and she now protected with drug help. Her chest tightened. Protective anger surged beyond what her medication could suppress. Exactly what she'd feared. Someone thinking wealth bought freedom from community duties that kept the perfect environment they had all paid to live in.

"Mr. Jacobson," she continued. Her voice stayed steady despite returning tremors that the Adderall couldn't quite control. "Your home's price doesn't exempt you from our neighborhood standards. Every resident, regardless of their..." A careful pause, words chosen with care. "Regardless of money status, must follow the same rules."

Rashad's expression hardened slightly. It was a tiny shift that her heightened awareness caught and saw as recognition of what she was hinting at. Good. Setting boundaries early seemed key for residents needing extra rule watching.

"I'll move the bins," he stated flatly. Authority met authority in the space between them. "Anything else?"

Patricia smiled her perfected HOA enforcement smile. Warm yet firm, friendly yet unyielding. The smile Richard had taught her during their first year of community management, when residents needed guidance rather than friendship.

"Just a reminder about our new resident welcome materials. Forty-seven pages of neighborhood guidelines, building requirements, and behavior expectations. Someone will deliver it tomorrow." The warning beneath her words hung in the air between them. It was clear despite remaining unspoken.

"Can't wait," Rashad replied. He was already turning toward his movers. Dismissal was clear in the set of his shoulders.

Patricia watched him grab the containers and wheel them toward his garage with sharp, angry movements. Plastic wheels against concrete echoed across perfect lawns like a declaration of war. Each turn was a small battle in what promised to become a long conflict between personal freedom and community control.

Walking home, Patricia felt the familiar mixture of satisfaction and unease following successful rule keeping. Rules established. Boundaries set. The newcomer told that Vellamar kept standards regardless of celebrity status or money. A perfect neighborhood required perfect following of rules. It was a lesson each resident learned either through cooperation or consequences.

Yet the look in his eyes revealed careful planning and smart thinking beyond mere defiance. Not just a wealthy athlete, but someone who understood systems and how to work them. Someone who wouldn't simply ignore rules but actively seek ways around them. Someone with money to resist the pressure that had removed previous residents whose presence threatened community character.

Someone preparing to fight.

Going up the stairs to her bedroom, passing Richard's photograph on the landing. The usual pause to touch the glass, to connect with the man whose vision she now protected through drugs and constant rule keeping.

"Day one," she murmured to his image. "He's going to cause problems."

Richard's frozen smile seemed encouraging, as always. As it had when they first established the HOA, when writing the original rulebook, when creating the perfect community where house values stayed high and families remained safe through careful management disguised as standards keeping.

Opening her nightstand drawer, shaking more pills into her palm, the evening dose needed when grief pressed heaviest and fear of losing control felt strongest. All prescribed, all legal, all necessary since Richard's death left her responsible for protecting everything they'd built together. The doctor understood her needs. He provided drug support for community protection requiring pill help.

From her bedroom window, 1247 Sycamore Lane came into focus. The moving truck gone. Lights on in every window. Music pulsing from the backyard. At least six vehicles in the driveway that weren't there an hour ago. Signs of celebration that broke noise rules, parking rules, and gathering limits set in Rule 17.9 of the community rulebook.

Reaching for her phone to take pictures of rule-breaking, noise problems, parking issues, and possible business activity that needed stronger action. But when she lifted the camera, she saw something that made her stomach drop. It was something so shocking her pills couldn't help her understand it right away.

A security camera, small and hidden, mounted under Rashad Jacobson's eaves. Its lens pointed directly toward the street, capturing neighbors' movements. Watching them exactly as Patricia observed everyone else.

The drugs took effect as she got into bed, yet sleep wouldn't come. Instead, she lay awake thinking about security cameras and garbage bins, neighborhood standards and property values, the careful balance keeping Vellamar as the perfect suburban safe place that she and Richard had dreamed up.

A safe place already under attack by someone with money to resist the pressure that had removed previous residents who threatened community character.

Beyond her window, the music continued nonstop. Each beat was a small rule-break that added up into patterns requiring picture taking. Tomorrow would bring official notices. The first step in planned rule keeping that previous residents had experienced as coincidental until money pressure made leaving the only option.

But Rashad Jacobson's money exceeded previous targets. His celebrity status provided outside visibility that rule harassment typically avoided. Removing him would require team effort, careful proof gathering, and drug-helped precision that medication made possible despite Richard's absence.

Patricia swallowed another pill. Its bitter taste was as familiar as grief itself. She began planning tomorrow's rule keeping strategy. Vellamar would remain perfect, regardless of which residents required removal through paper pressure disguised as legitimate community management.

Richard would have expected nothing less.

“THE HOA” SAMPLE CHAPTER

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